‘HO, Diomed, well met! Do you sup with Glaucus tonight?’ said a young man of small stature, who wore his tunic in those loose and effeminate folds which proved him to be a gentleman and a coxcomb.
‘Alas, no! dear Clodius; he has not invited me, ‘ replied Diomed, a man of portly frame and of middle age. ‘By Pollux, a scurvy trick! for they say his suppers are the best in Pompeii’.
‘Pretty well-though there is never enough of wine for me. It is not the old Greek blood that flows in his veins, for he pretends that wine makes him dull the next morning.’
‘There may be another reason for that thrift, ‘ said Diomed, raising his brows. ‘With all his conceit and extravagance he is not so rich, I fancy, as he affects to be, and perhaps loves to save his amphorae better than his wit.’